Rusty Bell

by Nthikeng Mohlele

  What if this man, whom I so revered, had nothing to offer beyond sharing, in jumbled alphabetical order, contents of an encyclopaedia? What if he was not wired for wisdom, not a creature of true pontification and reflection? Was it possible, or at least conceivable, that he had little to offer other than daydreaming on a rocking chair, tending carrot seedlings, pruning rose bushes? What if his languid silence, his faint nods, were admissions of failure, of emptiness, stupidity even? More disturbing was whether offspring could or should judge the cracks in the Franks of the world, the Franks who have willed them into existence. In a world of seven billion and counting, there surely were fathers who were less than bright, limited in their exploration of the world. Stupid. And even if that were true, proven by life’s unforgiving yardsticks, voicing such in Africa, a continent in a world of dwindling cultures, was tantamount to exiling oneself in the eyes of many, who would without thinking say: ‘He starved to death, to prove he was wiser than his own father, a man he branded a fool!’ They would snub my wedding, my house-warming parties, some even my funeral, saying: ‘Let him rise from those morgue refrigerators, dig his own damn grave if he’s so wise.’

  And in considering Frank, my father, I could not but help draw parallels between him and my Dr West, that other counsellor, air traffic controller on the runway that was to become my life. I was annoyed that Dr West refused to believe, to acknowledge, affirm the fact that a cat named Clinton K spoke to me. Clinton K, as I remember, put most psychiatrists to shame in his understated but incisive observation of the world. Why was Dr West, so practised in the avenues of the mind, its deceptions, known and unknown, so quick to deny, with a measure of certainty, that there could be, in this world blessed with trillions of cats, at least one capable of formulating arguments, enjoying being a prankster, telling tales? As much as I understood Dr West’s professional responsibilities, which included guiding fervent minds from falling off cliffs, starvation in the name of spiritual transcendence, I found his detachment from the Clinton K episode disturbing to say the least, offensive even. I am certain, double sure, committed to the fact that a cat named Clinton K sat on my windowsill and, with admirable skill and exactitude, narrated terrors suffered at the hands of sadistic and inadequate humans. Clinton K, in his no-doubt cynical and devil-may-care arrogance, brought to the fore the reckless gallantry of humans, a recklessness entirely foreign to my own father, I am sure.

  I was not sure what my father would make of my starvations, of the Clinton K episode, of Rusty Bell who prized and imagined tongues exploring that orifice, a corridor not intended for such. What would he make of Rusty Bell’s long fingers, fingers that helped themselves to a tool philosophically meant to be mine, fingers that ultimately proved unwavering in the pilfering of life-giving seed, yanked from a hungry fantasist who lay in a daze, imagining the world as he would like it to be? Would the obligations of fatherhood oblige him to listen without judgement, offer alternatives – or would he, appalled by the content of my confessions – like Ms Bell of the honey-brown assets, Monica of the sculptured knees – be rattled, lost at sea, with rusty compasses? Just how unimportant was the former truck driver, dreaming of powerful authority to command the departure and arrival of aircraft from lookout towers? What did fifteen years of staring at the tarmac, inhaling diesel fumes, wrestling gas-cylinder tonnage, contribute to a man’s knowledge, his sensibilities? What secret observations were offered by the many greetings and conversations exchanged with toothless shopkeepers in small, obscure towns? Was his supposed refusal to bed whores, a lack, a hurdle that chipped away at proper mastery of life’s atypical musings: worlds of philosophical cats, egg revolutionaries, Kerushas with midnight calls announcing underwear phobias? What did this man, who had for a decade and a half seen roads in all manner of variations: motorways covered in hailstones, some streaming with muddy rain water, others bloodied by carcasses of slain baboons, dusk and dawn cloud formations, the sweltering summer heat that reduced horizons to blurry, hazy conquests know? What did those lone hours, without the company of friend or foe, do to a man’s mind, how he weighed his worth in the universe? Were they, the hours serenaded by the drone of the diesel engine, of any use in revealing a man to himself – nudging him, later strangling him, forcing him for fifteen years to drive the same tedious routes with practised submission, chronic boredom, measured indifference?

  Did this explain why Frank’s peers took to roadside vaginas on parade: to counter the dreariness, to resist death by boredom, to momentarily expel the bad breath from their many hours of solitude? What did years of roadside urine stops, to the music of chirping birds and speeding cars, the absent-minded inspection of his penis, shrivelled and sweaty, at times suddenly hard at the thought of what awaited in Alexandra, the trucker’s dictatorial rod, randomly terrorising ant and termite holes, with coffee, Coca-Cola and watermelon water that had become urine, a salty puddle, discharged with vigour and relief, much to the terror of unsuspecting ants? It was perhaps the unbearable loneliness that pushed Father to once in a blue moon haul his flammable and explosive cargo through our neighbourhood, park the giant truck before our humble gate, and surprise Mother and me with a beaming smile and some carrot cake.

  The presence of that truck worked wonders, because I suddenly became a sought-after friend to my playmates, fielding an avalanche of questions. Did the horse and trailer truly and really belong to my father? How come it had so many big wheels? What would happen if they placed their palms under the giant truck wheels when Father drove away? I joined them in exploring the truck. We, with our little palms, felt our way around the truck’s massive wheel bolts (hot from the truck’s coastal trek under the blazing sun), accidentally dipped our fingers in greasy nooks, cringed at the colour splashes, green and orange hues from murdered insects: decapitated dragon flies, upside down butterflies, disembowelled moths. Our little hands continued their caress of the massive machine, including the solid steel step onto which Father climbed into the tiny door, the twin exhausts that curved in front of the front wheels, shiny exhausts that hissed diesel smoke as Father wrestled the beast into submission.

  We caressed, used lollipop sticks to dislodge tiny stones, glass bits and chewing gum lodged in the treads of the giant tyres. I was nagged. Persecuted with questions. Bribed. Allowed to get away with crimes – petty crimes. It was criminal the way I treated those playmates, how I took them for granted, instinctively knew they would seek me out, cajole me, betray each other, sell their tender souls, shower me with sweets, gang up and save me from clutches of bullies, put their ashy arms around my ungrateful neck. In whispers they pleaded … Could I speak to my father, ask him to on his next home stop please allow them petty (but in their view profound) privileges like to sound the truck’s horn? Jiggle the steering wheel. Even a road trip, if at all possible.

  I, as an unofficial Harmony Gas & Fuels representative, made sweeping and conclusive promises to my rascal friends; promises that, because of the mere existence of that truck, parked at our gate for an afternoon at most, guaranteed me novelties and loyalties reserved for very influential people. I lived like an emperor, surrounded by an ever-increasing galley of slaves, ring-wormed Mandelas and Churchills who worshipped my every gesture, no matter how laborious or erratic. Word of the truck spread to other streets, converting new disciples, eager entourages, whose only reward was a chance to caress the Harmony Gas & Fuels truck, to contribute to the urban legend of a truck that was like no other, a truck under whose carriage dusty rascals could lie, face up, counting bolts, sniffing at odd leaks, speculating why adults had hair in their armpits and, on daring occasions, confessions from Skinny Tefo, the discreet voyeur who wide-eyed and almost foaming at the mouth, yet in a whisper, once said: ‘They have hair down here, too! And my father likes wrestling mother on the bed, doing a funny dance on top of her. Mother closes her eyes, licks her lips, makes strange sounds, and says: “Yes, Daniel. My God in faraway heaven! Thank you for this man! Amen, you animal you. I am all yours. Harder!
Just like that. Oh, you are good … In the beginning was the Word. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy! Through the gates of Jerusalem we shall walk. Mmm. Oh my precious Lord … Danny, Danny, oh God, I’m on fire!”’

  ‘It’s not funny sounds, stupid.’ Our wisdom and enlightenment came from an unlikely source, the bow-legged Thomas, my scruffy disciple to whose bicycles I had unlimited access. ‘They not wrestling, either. They’re doing each other, making babies and things.’

  ‘Really?’ came a chorus from the unconverted.

  ‘Yes, really,’ confirmed Thomas. ‘And …’ he added, scratching his scaly limbs, ‘they talk and breathe all funny. The men, too. I heard it’s very nice.’

  Pule stirred, shell-shocked: ‘Like sweets?’

  ‘No,’ replied Thomas the Sage. ‘Like many things mixed together. Sweets. Prayers. Juicy meat. Custard. Sugar cane. Flames. Like biscuits. Sherbets. Wild animals. That’s why they’re always groaning, licking their lips. It must be that it tastes like many things at once.’

  ‘You, Michael? You ever seen or heard anything strange?’ asked the Sage.

  ‘No,’ I answered curtly: ‘My father is neither stupid nor a wild animal. Get away from under my father’s truck, all of you!’

  They shuffled away, the sorry creatures, dusting themselves, unsure when the truck would return, uncertain how long they had to keep up with me, their temperamental Emperor, under whose father’s truck so many secrets lost potency. There was, after all the others were sent away, tails between their legs, but one disciple, Palesa, who remained behind, witness to the softer side of the Emperor, his sad eyes, the only one who would years later become her desk mate, witness epilepsy engulf her in heartless persecutions: clenched teeth and eyes that rolled back as of one possessed, the helplessness against those seizures she felt coming but could do nothing to stop, the river of urine that on some occasions wet her pristine uniform, travelled under shoes of disgusted classmates, as her body trembled to quake-like tremors.

  The only thing that saved Palesa from total ruin, from being an object of pity and ridicule, was how strikingly beautiful she was – especially after her increasingly frequent seizures, when she looked exhausted, scared, dazed and confused, when I reached into my bag and, towel in hand, on all fours, followed the urine trail from puddle to stream to puddle, while teachers fanned her with notebooks. There were heartless attacks (snob, panty wetter, Ms Shakes!) against Palesa after school, from ugly cynics who envied her poise, her big tearful eyes, her beautiful mind.

  ‘And you, Michael …’ said Teacher Moleleki, ‘are going to rule over these donkeys you have for classmates. Let them laugh, call you names, Urine Man or whatever, but you are going to rule over most people, and they will never understand why. What is even more beautiful, and I hope these frogs learn it sooner rather than later, is how consistent you have been as Palesa’s friend. You have the purest of souls. Keep it up.’

  Strong words. But the seizures kept coming, more frequent and violent, until I carried two towels, until the day Palesa almost chewed her tongue, that Teacher Moleleki spoke to her parents. She was taken out of school, never to return. It was later, when I was at the peak of my powers as Emperor under the Harmony Gas & Fuels truck, that she told me her secret passion: that she never intended to work for medical or audit firms, that she had no interest in solving cosmic puzzles or designing malls and whole cities, marketing toothpaste brands, but rather to spend all her days with animals, in oversized costumes and a red nose, a clown who was first and foremost a beloved friend of the circus animals.

  I was, therefore, by the time I was at David Webster Hall, gravely offended by Rusty Bell’s callous email, an email that insisted that I ‘… forget about this Palesa of yours and her circus charades’, that further asked: ‘Do you really want a clown for a wife, someone who befriends monkeys and camels for a living?’ It was no accident that Palesa visited me, spent countless solidarity hours with me, while I lay fasting, starving. If there was anyone qualified to tell Dr West anything of substance, of value, it would have been Palesa. Yet I understood: Rusty Bell had, erroneously, over-estimated the power of her honey-brown assets and, unbeknown to her, committed a deplorable offence.

  Frank had a car of his own once: an Idi Amin-type Mercedes, cream with red seats, bought with a Harmony Gas & Fuels loan, that ailed, blissfully rusted away on bricks under the mulberry tree, doubling as an extra laundry line and a urinal for Uncle Jonas, Father’s drinker friend. The red seats were also a love couch for Palesa and me, when courting curiosities got the better of us. I – like Father and his Maria – in pleasant silence, held Palesa’s hand from sunset to late night. There was residual heat at the back of the Amin Mercedes, embalming heat, heat that spurred my thoughts to cosmic heights, thoughts far removed from the dreary and often unpredictable pulse of the township. Mass funerals. Midnight arrests. Elaborate weddings. Police savagery.

  One rainy night, I discovered the absolute bliss, the magnificence of nibbling pulsating ear lobes. Side by side, mouth to mouth, then mouth to ear, at the back of that Mercedes, built like a tank, its designer paraphernalia proclaiming: SE 500, Automatic. I would tell more of what transpired on that back seat, but a certain purity, a sacredness of sorts, does not allow me extended, elucidatory freedoms. Save for one insignificant, but nevertheless notable, detail: I learnt that love has its own time zones, when six blissful hours may seem like minutes and minutes (when love sours) like centuries. That drizzling evening was such a moment, blissful – except for the fact that Mr Mofokeng, Palesa’s reputable motor mechanic father, was beside himself with anxiety. Fear. Anger even. Given Palesa’s by-the-second death scares, it was to be expected that her father bordered on the paranoid – criss-crossing street after street, asking neighbours and passers-by, if they had seen a girl, in such-and-such a dress, or witnessed her convulsing, foaming at the mouth on some street corner.

  Because extended explanatory liberties are relative, the petty but noteworthy detail continues as follows: when we did bump into her father, shortly after 11 pm, on the corner of Sisulu and Ruth First avenues, sobbing silently as he walked, ghostlike because of the coal smoke that had descended over the houses, he couldn’t help but hurl a screwdriver that almost punctured the cheek below my right eye. That is how I got the scar on my cheek, a scar shaped with the curvature of a euro symbol (€), without the two small lines, which distinctly separate my scar from the Euro zone currency.

  There was a cold warning: ‘Stay away from my daughter, or …’ followed by trembling lips, a shaky warning finger, and a disjointed prayer: ‘… Palesa … Let’s go home!’ Prompt: calamities of the heart. My wiping urine off classroom floors, being mean to my disciples (for secretly making fun of Palesa’s epilepsy), was never because I was in love. I did not wipe that steaming salty liquid, the colour of water, often times that of diluted apple juice, because I in any way wanted to impress Palesa. I cannot say I was in love with her, but neither can I, with absolute certainty, say that I wasn’t. Being with her left me with an odd feeling: not a singular feeling, but part warmth, part admiration, rock-hard trust, a familiar fondness – a pulsating submission to her charm that was pleasant yet overwhelming. It was not love, but something quite close, something easily mistaken for love, something much more grounded, a feeling that kept me awake for weeks on end, brooding, clutching at its elusive throbbings. Palesa was the closest thing to perfect feminine beauty. Come to think of it, she was the first woman for whom I bled. Touching.

  Before my scar took shape, aping the euro currency, I had to make a futile trip to Sandton City to collect Father’s glasses, without which he was practically blind. Life was a blur, he said, shapes and colours deceptive, admiration of beautiful things curtailed. The optometrist, a Mr Jones, had sworn on his mother’s grave that the spectacles would be ready three weeks following my screwdriver incident, but I was, upon arrival, advised by a visibly lazy or moody Victoria Taitz (such beautiful collarbones!) that Mr Jones had been arrested for medic
al-aid fraud, and that according to Eagle Vision’s practice records, there were no glasses scheduled for collection by a Frank Somebody, or Frank Anybody.

  Father complained that the frame on his spare glasses was heavy, aesthetically undesirable, and if truth be told, not consistent with the image he had of himself. When pressed for answers by his Maria exactly what that image of himself was, Frank laughed and, as was expected, said it was a long story, to be told some day in the future. ‘That’s my Frank,’ interjected Mother. ‘He believes he will live for two thousand years, answer everything in the future, talk day and night answering decades’ worth of questions, some of which have long expired.’ She gave him a mock frown, and said: ‘But seriously, sweetie, why do you never answer questions?’ ‘Because,’ chuckled Frank, ‘what if words run out, from me answering every little thing? If I think about your questions, I can preserve words, like soldiers save ammunition. They, knowing enemy forces lurk around, don’t waste bullets on frogs and lizards or target-shooting games on old rusty tins. So important is preservation of bullets that war tacticians invented bayonets, to stab and twist, puncture guts and fracture spines, a crude way of fulfilling one’s war duties. It’s the same with words; worse in fact: because there are no bayonets should they run out. A nod should be sufficient, most of the time, like would-be prisoners of war need only raise a white cloth, not recite the Book of Psalms, to be spared mortar rounds.’